


You Complain About Them

by orphan_account



Series: Very Sincerely, Yours [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Drugs bust, Letters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-11
Updated: 2014-10-11
Packaged: 2018-02-20 19:07:52
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,622
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2439593
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>During a drugs bust Lestrade, Donovan, and Anderson discover that John Watson has been writing Sherlock Holmes. They react, offer opinions, and advice much to Sherlock's disgust.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You Complain About Them

**Author's Note:**

> I've decided to change the way this series is done a bit. Instead of it being letters back and forth between Sherlock and John, there will be excerpts of letters and then a scene from their lives. The letters aren't necessarily from that time in their life, they'll just generally apply. Hopefully that's not too confusing and if it is then hopefully you'll understand better once you read the story.

 

 

 

  
 _In the greatest example of nepotism in London history Lestrade, Donovan, and Anderson are all on the same team at the Scotland Yard. It’s disgusting that such a team could have been formed. They’re morons. Unfortunately, because no one at the Yard is particularly intelligent, this is the best of a bad lot, which doesn’t say much for the criminal system here. London should thank me for tolerating such incompetence and bringing safety to the city._

_S. Holmes_

_Lestrade, Donovan, and Anderson are your friends. – Or… you know, at least friendly co-workers. You might think Anderson’s narrow minded (and he is, a bit), and Donovan’s stuck-up (you make her think you’re a psychopath, you berk), and Lestrade’s slow (you think everyone’s slow) but you like them. You complain about them all the time and that’s how I know you like them. It’s the people you don’t write about that concern me._

_John H. Watson_

 

            Sherlock knew the police were in his flat before he even entered the building. Sherlock _always_ knew when they were in his flat before he entered the building. Probably they imagined that they were being clever by not parking their cars on his street. It hadn’t seemed to occur to Scotland Yard’s best and brightest that whenever they stopped by for a visit the streets were always empty. Everyone having run into hiding like the rats they were, thought Sherlock uncharitably.

            When he opened the door to his flat he was unsurprised to find Lestrade grinning at him. “Oh good you’re home.”

            “What are you doing here?”

            “Drugs bust,” he answered, gesturing to the other officers.

            “Who authorized this? _You_?” The last was spat out derisively.

            “No. That brother of yours has a hell of a lot of power though.”

            “Which he clearly abuses. Remind you of anyone?” Anderson sneered.

            “Are you implying that I have power that I abuse? Because if I did then don’t you think I’d use it to avoid these happy visits of yours?”

            Anderson rolled his eyes then frowned at whatever he had found in the bread box. Lestrade shrugged, “If you withhold evidence then we’ll search for it. That’s the way this works.”

            “I’m not withholding evidence.”

            “No? So you didn’t find Ms. Hastings’ emerald necklace?”

            “They’re fake emeralds,” insisted Sherlock. “That’s the whole reason she came to you lot instead of straight to her insurance company. She doesn’t want her ridiculous lover to realise that the jewels and insurance policy – are fake. The murder threat was most likely fake too. Just a way for her to involve you idiots.”

            “I was there when we interviewed her, Sherlock. I wasn’t asking if the emeralds were real. I was asking where you put them in this hellhole.”

            “Why are you even concerned about the damn things? They’re fake! And they are _not_ connected to the jewel thief you think they’re connected to. _That_ thief would have known they weren’t real.”

            “Sherlock,” Lestrade warned.

            “Look what I found.”

            The group turned to find Donovan standing behind them holding a small box. Lestrade frowned at it because he didn’t really think the box was going to be anything good. A quick glance at Sherlock pretty well confirmed Lestrade’s theory when he saw how pale Sherlock had gone. Sherlock’s body was wrought with tension as he stared at the box. Speaking quickly Sherlock said, “How did you find that? Doesn’t matter. Give it to me.”

            Donovan dodged away from Sherlock and said, “It’s a _drugs bust_. I have to check it.”

            “It’s not drugs and it’s not the damn emeralds. Give it.” Sherlock insisted and the frantic tone in his voice had Lestrade mentally cursing. Whatever was in that box was very, very not good. “The fake emeralds are in the fireplace. Third row from the bottom, second brick from the left. Get it and get out.” Sherlock made another grab for the box.

            Lestrade gestured for the other officers to leave while Anderson checked the fireplace. Sure enough the damn things were right where Sherlock had said. Lestrade hadn’t even known there were loose bricks in the fireplace, which only proved that Lestrade was shite at keeping Sherlock clean. “Got it!” Donovan crowed. “It’s a letter. Addressed from John Watson.”

            “Our John Watson?

            “He’s not your anything,” snapped Sherlock.

            “Please tell me,” sighed Lestrade, ignoring Sherlock’s outburst, “you didn’t write to him about his injury. He really doesn’t need that.”

            Sherlock drew himself up and said regally, “It is none of your concern who I choose to write to or what I choose to write about.”

            Lestrade snorted, “You say that but I’m always the one that gets yelled at. Open it up, Donovan.”

            “What? How dare you invade my privacy this way?” Sherlock screeched. Lestrade decided it must be really bad if Sherlock was going on about his privacy.

            Donovan cleared her throat dramatically and Sherlock paled. Lestrade watched as Sherlock very obviously tried to calculate how to get the letter from Donovan and keep it away from Anderson and Lestrade. Seemingly realising that there wasn’t a safe way to do this Sherlock’s shoulders slumped. Lestrade felt a stab of guilt, but Sherlock was always harassing people and, in all honesty, Lestrade didn’t trust that Sherlock was as clean as he claimed to be.

            Finally Donovan read, importantly, “ _Sherlock, Has anyone in the history of the world ever forgotten you_?”

            “No.” Lestrade interrupted. Donovan shot him a dark look for it but he ignored her too. “Get to the part where John threatens him or something. Skip down or flip the paper over.”

            Donovan rolled her eyes and Sherlock snapped, “He didn’t threaten me. It’s a personal letter, give it back.”

            Lestrade hesitated because Sherlock wasn’t generally the type to hide people threatening him like this. Normally Sherlock didn’t care, but if he could be arsed to remember that he’d pissed someone off he usually admitted to it freely. Donovan did not hesitate. Instead she skipped down the page and read, “ _Maybe if you had sent it things would have gone differently. Instead of writing to a bloke from uni I fancied_ ”-

            Donovan made a noise of distress as she threw the letter back at Sherlock. “Oh my god.”

            All three officers gaped at Sherlock as he put the letter back in its envelope. After it was placed back in its box he glared at them and snapped, “Well?”

            “You and John Watson are dating?”

            “Has he met you?” Anderson asked dubiously.

            “Anderson,” chastised Lestrade absently. Anderson gestured to Sherlock as though that were a proper defense. As much as Lestrade liked Sherlock he had to admit that Anderson was a little right. Sherlock was brilliant, he was a great man, but he was… he was _so much_.

            Sherlock narrowed his eyes at them and said tightly, “It is none of your business. None of this is your business but you’re all so moronic you have nothing better to than harass the citizens of London. Bravo on your truly superb police work.”

            They had all known Sherlock too long to be terribly impressed by this speech. Donovan and Anderson just looked annoyed and Lestrade sighed wearily. Donovan crossed her arms and asked, “Did you tell him that you’re a psychopath?”

            “Donovan.”

            “John has the right to know. It’s not fair of Sherlock to pretend he can feel things for someone.”

            “I’m a high-functioning sociopath,” snapped Sherlock. Lestrade closed his eyes and wondered when Sherlock had decided that. “Anyway, I haven’t been pretending to have feelings for someone. Hypocrite,” Sherlock gave Anderson a pointed look with that. Anderson looked offended but Donovan just rolled her eyes.

            Lestrade rubbed his forehead and wondered why he continued to show up at Sherlock’s flat without taking measures to prevent the inevitable headache. He also wondered why he consistently brought Donovan and Anderson along, since they seemed incapable of doing anything more than egging Sherlock on. Then getting angry when Sherlock spewed venom at them.

            He levelled Sherlock with a stern look and asked, “What did you write back to John?” Lestrade wasn’t sure what was worse: Sherlock writing John for intimate details about his injury or Sherlock writing to dismiss John’s feelings. Sherlock glared belligerently at him. Lestrade shrugged, “The drugs bust isn’t over until you tell us. Your brother was very willing to pay us overtime for this. He worries about you.”

            Sherlock snorted and set the box carefully down on top of an impressively tall pile of papers. Then he flung himself onto the sofa in a dramatic display he favored even though Donovan and Anderson mocked him for them. Hell, even Lestrade mocked him for them. Privately Lestrade thought Sherlock had been born in the wrong era. He should have been born during… Shakespeare’s time when he could have performed the Bard’s plays. Although the other actors probably would have murdered Sherlock during one of the plays’ murder scenes.

            “Not that it’s your business,” Sherlock said sharply, interrupting Lestrade’s meandering thoughts, “but, since you won’t leave without my telling you, I haven’t written back to John yet.”

            Lestrade had just opened his mouth to insist Sherlock _be nice_ when Donovan made a strangled sound. She looked horrified by this knowledge and cried, “But that letter was dated three months ago!”

            Sherlock glared because of all the times for Donovan to be an observant officer she would choose this moment. “Your point?”

            “He’s leading John on.” Anderson insisted.

            “If I were leading John on then don’t you think that I would have written him back?”

            “Right. So you’re not dating John, you’re not leading him on, and you’re not writing him. But you did write him and he wrote back saying he fancies you.”

            “To be accurate he said that he fancied me in uni.” Sherlock muttered. Then he sat upright to glare at them properly and snapped, “Why are you still here?” He strode over to the door and opened it. “Good-bye.”

            Lestrade narrowed his eyes at Sherlock and asked, “Are you writing him back? Sometime within the next year?”

            “Good-bye.”

            “Does he know about your obsession with murder? You’ll probably murder him in his sleep.”

            “Why are you still here? Who do I call for the police trespassing? Because you are trespassing now, since the drugs bust is obviously over. Get out.”

            Lestrade stood and sighed, “I think it’s a good idea.”

            Anderson, Donovan, and Sherlock stared at him blankly. “What do you mean?” Anderson demanded.

            “Sherlock writing to John Watson. I think it’s a good idea. Hopefully Sherlock will get the bollocks to write back soon.”

            Sherlock’s clapped his hands together and cried, “Do you truly approve? Oh joy. I’ve been eagerly awaiting the approval of a mediocre police officer.” His face hardened and he roared, “For god’s sake! Get out!” Lestrade sighed, looking tired, but gestured for Anderson and Donovan to follow him out.

            Sherlock slammed the door shut for good measure. He scowled at the door. It wasn’t fair that he had to put up with those idiots just to gain access to crime scenes. It was insulting that he had to deal with their constant invasions of his privacy for their absurd drugs busts. As though if he wished to go back to old habits he couldn’t hide it from them. Sherlock’s mouth tightened as he turned to glare at the box. The damnable box with John’s letter and Sherlock’s original letter. He supposed it was better than Donovan had picked up John’s letter than Sherlock’s own letter. That would have been too incriminating.

            He ruffled his hair irritably, furious at them discovering the letter. It wasn’t as though he had decided not to write back to John. The problem was that John was never supposed to write back in the first place. John was supposed to have been baffled by the letter then let it sink away into a vague memory. Or, if he did deign to write, it was only supposed to be a brief letter of apology that John didn’t feel the same way. A bloody confession was not supposed to happen. What the hell was Sherlock supposed to say in response to _that_?

            Sherlock opened his laptop and pulled up his e-mail. He had several dozen letters addressed to John in his drafts. Well, letters was perhaps too strong a word for what he had. Most of the proposed letters had one line or even just one word. Frequently that word was ‘why’. He was actually rather relieved that John had written to say they shouldn’t date. John wasn’t supposed to have done any of this though. Why couldn’t John ever react the way a normal person did? If he had then Sherlock wouldn’t be in the position he was in now.

            He pulled up a blank draft and began his letter by ignoring what John had written in his letter.

 

_Dear John,_

_My busy-body brother will no doubt be using his connections to read these e-mails. I thought I should mention this as a warning for you not to reveal anything you don’t want him to know. Although… most likely he already knows everything you could possibly say. He’s the most insufferable know-it-all that has ever, or will ever, live. If you meet him then I recommend not revealing anything about yourself because he already knows it. For some reason it still infuriates him when people refuse to reveal their secrets to him. He’s an idiot._

 

            Sherlock wasn’t sure how long he sat writing but at the end of it he had finished his letter. He frowned thunderously at it because he hated it and John Watson. Then he hit send before he could think about it or second guess himself. It was best to get this over with so that he could forget it. Deleting the situation would probably help except he knew from experience that deleting John Watson was not possible. This was the best solution that he could come up with.

            The door to the flat opened and Sherlock carefully shut his laptop. He clasped his hands together as Victor complained, “I don’t know why you’re friends with police.”

            “You left before having to interact with them. I don’t know why you’re complaining.”

            Victor snorted but knew enough not to say anything to that. Instead he asked, “Want some?”

            “Still clean.”

            “Still? More for me.”

            Sherlock glanced at Victor out of the corner of his eye. It didn’t bother Sherlock that Victor used drugs around him. Victor was nothing but someone else to speak to other than the skull. If Sherlock wanted to use drugs again then he didn’t need encouragement and he wasn’t so weak he couldn’t handle someone else’s drug use. He only kept Victor around because Victor was… Victor was… well, Victor was Victor. There really wasn’t much more to it than that.

            There really wasn’t any purpose in John knowing about Victor. He would only be upset about the drug use and they were not dating. John had very specifically said they shouldn’t. Nor did Sherlock see the purpose in Victor knowing about John. Again they were not dating and Victor hadn’t felt the need to tell Sherlock about his amorous adventures. As though Sherlock couldn’t tell every time Victor returned. As though Sherlock cared whether Victor shagged everyone he met.

            Sherlock glanced at the skull and wondered if it was genuinely better talking to Victor than the skull. It wasn’t as though Victor said anything worthwhile. Mostly he sat staring at Sherlock in a haze. Deciding that he was not going to reanimate the old habit of obsessively thinking about John Watson Sherlock went to the kitchen. He scowled thunderously because of course they had ruined everything.

 


End file.
